One major distraction, p.1
One Major Distraction, page 1
“I’m wondering why I like you so much, even though you’re obviously lying to me.”
Flynn pulled Tess in a little bit closer. “I’m not lying to you,” she said softly. Not about this. “I just should have forgotten the whole thing and…and…what are you doing?”
Somehow he had moved in closer and all but buried his nose against her neck. “You smell good,” he said. “Like cinnamon and sugar and soap.”
Flynn didn’t smell so bad himself. His scent was masculine and it teased her senses in a way she hadn’t expected. But she wasn’t about to tell him so.
“I don’t have time for this,” she whispered.
“Neither do I,” he said, “and still I’m sitting here thinking…why not?”
Linda Winstead Jones
One Major Distraction
Books by Linda Winstead Jones
Silhouette Intimate Moments
Bridger’s Last Stand #924
Every Little Thing #1007
*Madigan’s Wife #1068
*Hot on His Trail #1097
*Capturing Cleo #1137
Secret-Agent Sheik #1142
*In Bed with Boone #1156
*Wilder Days #1203
*Clint’s Wild Ride #1217
*On Dean’s Watch #1234
A Touch of the Beast #1317
†Running Scared #1334
†Truly, Madly, Dangerously #1348
†One Major Distraction #1372
Silhouette Books
Love Is Murder
“Calling after Midnight”
Family Secrets
Fever
LINDA WINSTEAD JONES
would rather write than do anything else. Since she cannot cook, gave up ironing many years ago, and finds cleaning the house a complete waste of time, she has plenty of time to devote to her obsession for writing. Occasionally she’s tried to expand her horizons by taking classes. In the past she’s taken instruction on yoga, French (a dismal failure), Chinese cooking, cake decorating (food-related classes are always a good choice, even for someone who can’t cook), belly dancing (trust me, this was a long time ago) and, of course, creative writing.
She lives in Huntsville, Alabama, with her husband of more years than she’s willing to admit and the youngest of their three sons.
She can be reached via www.eHarlequin.com or her own Web site www.lindawinsteadjones.com.
With love for brother Tom and Party Marty.
Wherever life takes you—rock on.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 1
Flynn Benning had been shot at a number of times, and he’d been stabbed, once. He’d staked out bad guys in freezing rain and hundred degree heat. He’d crawled through a swamp on his belly and swallowed more sand than he cared to remember. And this…this was the worst assignment he had ever taken, bar none.
Laura Stokes had her hand up again. That hand wasn’t just lifted into the air, it waved and wiggled and the fingers danced. “Mr. Benning, Mr. Benning, Mr. Benning,” she chirped when he didn’t immediately acknowledge her raised hand. “This isn’t the way Mr. Hill did it. Today is Thursday, so we should have a review of the vocabulary, and tomorrow we’ll have the vocabulary test. That’s the way he always did it.”
Flynn glared, and the hand slowly drifted down. Laura Stokes was thirteen years old, redheaded, and wore glasses and braces. She was entering her gangly phase, and her voice was often whiny. Like now. He would feel sorry for her if she wasn’t getting on his last nerve. Again.
Laura’s more sedate schoolmate, Bev Martin, sat behind her and did her best to hide from Flynn and everyone else in the room. Bev leaned forward and whispered to Laura, no doubt advising her friend to back off before she got the entire class in trouble. Bev looked very much like Laura, in many ways. Her hair was a pale blond and she was taller, but they dressed the same and even wore similar small, gold-rimmed eyeglasses.
“I’m not Mr. Hill,” Flynn said as he leaned casually against the desk he had been calling his own for two very long days. He raked his gaze quickly across the room, taking in the fourteen teenage girls who were enrolled in this history class. Many were more confident and poised than Laura and Bev, and a couple of the others always looked a little bit lost. For the duration of the current assignment he’d be teaching this class and three others. “Until Mr. Hill returns, we’ll be doing things my way.”
A twisted trail had brought Flynn and his team to this exclusive all-girls school in rural Georgia. In the past two weeks the headmistress, one sour Dr. Harriet Barber, had reported not one but two breakins to the local sheriff’s department. On the first occasion she’d found the window to her office open, when she was positive she’d locked it before retiring for the evening. The investigators had not taken that crime seriously, especially since nothing had been stolen. The second invasion had taken place in the same building. A window had been broken. Again, nothing was taken, but by this time Dr. Barber was livid. She’d insisted that a full investigation take place, including taking fingerprints. Since she was tougher than the sheriff’s investigators, she got what she wanted.
More than one set of prints had been found, of course, but after those who had access to the room were cleared one set of fingerprints remained. They were entered into a database, searching for a match.
On Monday morning, a mere three days ago, a match had been made. The fingerprints found on the windowsill matched those found at the scene of a crime that had taken place five years earlier, in Austin, Texas. A robbery gone bad had left the man who’d surprised the thief dead. All they had collected by way of evidence were the fingerprints and one blond hair. The hair was from a female, and there was no way to be sure if it had come from the thief or one of the victim’s many female friends. Just because they’d never been able to match the hair to any known acquaintances didn’t mean it hadn’t come from an innocent bystander, so to speak.
The man who’d been killed had been very influential. Rumor was he had connections to the government. Connections of the covert kind. The man had also been a friend of Max Larkin’s, and he was taking this personally. If the thief who’d killed Max’s friend was here, searching these old buildings for a treasure of some sort, Max wanted him caught.
Max Larkin worked in a consulting capacity for a government agency, and the Frances Teague Academy, an elite school for girls of middle and high school age, could be swarming with feds right now. Instead Max had hired the Benning Agency to get the job done. Max had hired the agency in the past, on more than one occasion. Their headquarters were tucked in back of a ratty old gas station in rural Alabama, but that didn’t mean they weren’t the best at what they did. Security, investigation, retrieval.
Hiring Flynn’s agency gave Larkin some control over the situation. More than he would have had if this investigation became official. At the present time there wasn’t enough evidence to interest the FBI—there was just enough to give Max hope that his friend’s killer might be caught.
Max was too close to the situation to be involved. He hadn’t taken it well when Flynn had told him he wasn’t welcome here until the job was done.
Four members of the Benning team had arrived at the school Tuesday night, after dark. They had moved in as quietly and seamlessly as possible, and Dr. Barber was the only staff member who knew the reason for the intrusion.
Quinn Calhoun was now a soccer coach, Dante Mangino was a janitor and Sean Murphy had taken on the position of computer teacher. His boyish good looks had the older girls all agog. Flynn was teaching history. They had taken the places of four employees Max had been able to quickly clear of suspicion by comparing their fingerprints to those taken at the scene of the crime. In order to explain away the departure of four male staff members at the same time, they’d concocted a viral disease that would be laying the missing teachers, coach and janitor low for at least a few weeks. In truth, they were all relaxing quite comfortably in a safe house in South Florida, courtesy of Max Larkin. Not that they cared. South Florida in February was not a bad place to be. It beat a cold Georgia school filled with curious girls any day of the week.
Flynn’s first instinct was to line up every employee on the grounds and take their fingerprints—along with a strand of hair from all the female employees, just in case. Max had nixed that idea at the outset. If the thief was watching, he’d be spooked by such an obvious inquiry, and that would never do.
Class was dismissed, the assignment for reading a chapter and writing a paper on the American Revolution made—even though, apparently, Mr. Hill would never do such a thing. Flynn would give the students a couple of days to work on their paper in class, which would save him from actually having to teach, at least for a while. After tomorrow, he’d have the weekend free. With any luck, they’d have Austin—the nickname they’d given the murdering thief—in custody by Monday. Not likely, but he could hope. Maybe Max would send him to Florida as a reward for a job so quickly and well done.
Not likely.
Flynn headed down the hall to the teachers’ lounge. He had fifteen minutes between classes. If Austin was watching, he had to look like one of the guys. I f Austin was already here, he needed to find the bastard before someone else got themselves killed. It was possible the thief had come and gone, but Max was willing to bet otherwise.
The Frances Teague Academy was situated on well-manicured grounds, with a number of ancient oak trees growing here and there. The place screamed of old money. It had once been a small private college, and that’s what it looked like. For a period of several years, the place had stood empty. Had something of value been hidden here at that time? Maybe. Flynn hadn’t been able to think of any other reason for Austin to be there.
Six redbrick buildings, all of them square and massive and studious-looking, made up the bulk of the campus. There was even ivy growing on the old walls. Two buildings were used for classes—one for girls of middle school age, one for high school. Two buildings were dormitories, for the girls who lived on campus and the female teachers. One, the smallest building, was housing for the male teachers and employees who opted not to live in town. The downstairs of that building sported a lounge of sorts, with an old television and a few mismatched chairs. Upstairs there were four small apartments, which were now occupied by the Benning agents.
The main building at the center of it all was where the administrative offices, the cafeteria and the gym were located. It was also the site of both breakins.
The school’s only security to this point had been a service from the small town nearby—two men who drove through slowly a few times a day. While it was tempting to ratchet up security, such a move would surely scare Austin away, if he was watching. Best to keep things as low-key as possible, until they had something concrete to work with.
The old buildings had been well maintained, but they were still old, and showed their age here and there. The room Flynn stepped into looked like teachers’ lounges everywhere. There was a sagging couch someone had decided they no longer wanted, a round table with one leg that was slightly shorter than the others, a few mismatched chairs, a battered counter with a coffeepot and all the fixings, a narrow window that looked out over the grounds, and, of course, a few teachers.
A few suspects? Flynn didn’t even know with any certainty that they were looking for a man. They had assumed the thief and killer was a man, they referred to Austin as “he.” But that wasn’t necessarily the case. For all they knew, the blond hair had come from Austin. Was she here right now, searching for some sort of valuable hidden in the main building? Something worth spending months here to find? There were a handful of teachers who were new to the school this year, who could have come in for the express purpose of gaining access to the school. Two of them were in this room.
Serena Loomis was a math teacher, and she looked the part. Her dark hair was very short, her glasses were small and black-rimmed and she was always dressed very precisely, in tailored shirts and neatly pressed slacks. The woman looked like she didn’t ever wrinkle. Or smile. Her records said she was thirty-six, and she looked to be that age, or close to it.
Stephanie McCabe was a polar opposite from the math teacher. She taught English and was irritatingly bubbly. According to her file she was twenty-nine. She was pretty, blond and wore froufrou dresses and too much makeup. She also sold makeup, as a sideline, and had already tried to sell Flynn skin care products made especially for men. She hadn’t taken kindly to his response that where he was from skin care products for men were called soap.
Both women were new faculty members, which had moved them to the top of Flynn’s short list of suspects. Even though Loomis looked tough, neither of them actually looked like they were capable of murder, but you could never tell. Getting prints from Loomis and McCabe should be easy enough, but the move had to be subtle. No one had ever accused Flynn Benning of being subtle. He eyed their coffee mugs and wondered if it would be possible to scoop them up and retrieve usable prints.
As he crossed to room, Loomis nodded to him. McCabe’s smile died, and she made a dismissive huffing noise. Harry Kaylor, biology teacher, hovered over the almost empty coffeepot. His greeting was even less enthusiastic than McCabe’s. Kaylor was not one of Flynn’s prime suspects. He was getting close to retirement—had in fact passed retirement age—and had been at this school for more than twelve years. Unfortunately, none of the handful of male employees had been here less than four years, which all but eliminated them from suspicion.
It was just as possible, perhaps more likely, that Austin was living in town, watching and waiting for the right opportunity to break into the main building once again. All Flynn had to do was find out what he was searching for. And wait.
The door behind Flynn swung open, and a woman bearing a tray of cookies stormed in. She wore a shapeless white uniform, comfortable shoes and no makeup, and still she caught Flynn’s eye. There was something very pretty about the curve of her cheek and the color of her skin. Auburn hair, thick and wavy, had been caught in a ponytail, and something about it just begged to be set free. Made Flynn’s fingers itch.
“I baked more cookies than we need for lunch,” she said, her Southern accent soft but unmistakable, “and I thought y’all might like to help me finish them off.”
The response she received was much warmer than the one Flynn had gotten when he’d walked in. Of course, he hadn’t brought cookies. He also wasn’t nearly so pretty. The woman skirted past Flynn and headed for the counter by the coffeepot, where she deposited the sweets. Without asking, she took out the old filter and wet grounds and began to make a fresh pot.
“Bless you,” Kaylor said. “Your coffee is always so much better than mine. I’m not sure why.”
“I have the magic touch,” the woman teased.
She glanced over her shoulder to Flynn, and her smile dimmed. They hadn’t officially met, but he had noticed her in the cafeteria last night, dishing up grilled chicken breasts and steamed broccoli and rice. Last night her auburn hair had been caught in a hairnet that had not been particularly flattering. He liked the ponytail better.
When Dr. Barber had presented Flynn with a roster of the employees who had arrived in the fall, there hadn’t been any cafeteria personnel listed. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to be thorough.
He stepped forward and offered his hand. “Flynn Benning. I just started teaching here yesterday. History.”
She continued to make coffee, ignoring his offered hand. “Tess Stafford.”
“Tess works in the dining hall,” Kaylor said unnecessarily, when it became clear that Tess didn’t intend to offer any more information about herself. “She takes good care of us, and brings us cookies and brownies and such, now and then.”
Flynn glanced down at the heart-shaped cookies on the platter by the coffeepot. Kaylor had already grabbed one, and Loomis and McCabe were both headed this way. “Hearts?”
“It is Valentine’s Day,” Stephanie McCabe said as she reached past Tess Stafford and grabbed one of the pink-iced cookies.
“Is it?” Flynn asked. “I hadn’t realized.”
Loomis snorted as she reclaimed her seat. “Don’t you watch television, Mr. Benning? Or listen to the radio? Or read the newspaper?”
“I don’t watch much television,” he admitted. And when it came to the newspaper, he usually read the first page and skimmed the rest.
Stephanie remained near the counter, standing right next to Tess Stafford. “When are you going to let me give you that makeover?” she asked, her eyes on the cafeteria lady’s face. “You have such good bone structure and such excellent skin tone, if you’d just get started with a good, daily skin care regimen…”
“I really don’t have time,” Stafford said as she finished with the coffeemaker and backed away. She came inches from running into Flynn. He did a quick recon. Age: probably mid-thirties. Height: five foot five inches, or thereabouts. Physical condition: above average. There were nicely sculpted muscles in her upper arms, and underneath that baggy white uniform she looked to be in excellent shape. Socially: awkward, cautious. She definitely hadn’t been eager to make friends with him.
Stafford scooped up the dirty mugs, much to Flynn’s dismay, and left the lounge with an awkward wave for the other teachers and the instruction to make do with the foam cups until she got the mugs washed and returned to the lounge. Tempted as Flynn was to tackle her and snag the fingerprinted crockery, he dismissed the idea. There would be other chances.
